by John Stone
“No need for a grave. Whoever is doing this just finds a compost bin or septic tank nearby and slips the bodies in. Then...it's just bout waiting until they're decomposed.”
Everyone needed to have a sharp eye out.
Damianos had only rarely tangled with serial killers but knew that even psychopaths had their reasons to kill. There was almost always an explanation as to why they had to obsessively kill in a pattern over and over. It wasn't random chaos and carnage. Usually, either the object of their paranoia or obsession is a personal enemy or it represents someone that vengeance has to be exacted.
Damianos looked over the evidence that they had so far, hoping to find something.
In this case, it was even more complex.
The victims had nothing in common besides being old men. They lived in completely different areas of the city, seemed to have no acquaintances in common, or anything linking them together besides their age.
So all he could come up with was that they were looking for someone who held some sort of grudge toward older men.
Then there was the cellar.
The kills always took place in the cellar before the bodies were moved. There had to be a reason for that. They could have been killed anywhere in their house: The living room, their bedroom, or even sitting on the toilet.
But it was always the cellar.
Why?
The first thought that came to him was that maybe the killer had been harmed by someone older than them in a basement. An abusive parent or grand-parent was far from unheard of.
So many possibilities—spawned from so little information.
Chapter Five
Within the week, the bodies were identified and with their identification, finally came a somewhat visible pattern.
Unfortunately, it wasn't before another elderly man was found in his basement, though, this time without any compost bin or septic hole nearby—much to Alan Davros's relief. After inspecting the new crime scene, he was fairly certain that the victim and “his rat friends” were alone in having suffered the ultimate ordeal.
And that's when the pattern became undeniably clear to Damianos.
Each of the houses where the victims were found were restored heritage homes that were either owned or occupied by the unfortunate old men.
**
Though there was now a pattern, at least, they were no closer to discovering the identity of the murderer. Damianos was beginning to grow rather frustrated by how stumped they still were. All of the fingerprints in the homes belonged to the victims. There were no witnesses in any of the neighborhoods that had noticed anything out of the ordinary—no one who had seen anyone unfamiliar.
Damianos decided to retrace the investigation to where it started for him.
Walking up to the Lillian Adams's driveway, he couldn't help but look across the street at the large Edward house. Just the sight of it made him cringe. The fact such a beautiful house could shelter such horrible secret in its foundation was chilling. He remembered that staircase that lead down into darkness and the rancid smell that accompanied it.
Damianos would definitely be staying on the other side of the street from that nightmare. He wasn't superstitious or anything but the memories of that place made him want to vomit all over again. The fact that that evil had extended past Leon Edward's property line also sickened him. He had to figure out who it was and put an end to their craziness.
A few minutes later, Damianos was sitting in one of Lillian's chairs with both her and Roberta looking at him from the couch.
They'd certainly outdone themselves with the cookies and lemon meringue pies they had made for him but he wasn't there to trade recipes. He needed answers—he wasn't sure to what question exactly—but any answers that could even help a little would be great.
“Did you ever notice any visitors he had? Any family or friends around?” Damianos asked.
“Maybe only a couple regulars that I saw over there a few times. Mostly he seemed to be happy keeping to himself, tinkering around his house, ya know?” Lillian said.
“And any idea who these regulars were?” Damianos asked while taking a bit out of one a delicious cookie.
“I think one was his daughter.” Lillian said, looking to Roberta.
“Yes, definitely Leon's daughter. A cute little thing.” Roberta said with a nod.
“And another one...who I always thought was a brother or cousin. Definite resemblance.” Lillian said, again to a confirmation from Roberta.
They explained that beyond those two, there were occasional visitors but they all looked like professional types—maybe a lawyer, insurance agent, or a doctor. Nothing to really go off of.
Damianos was grateful for the little information they could provide and left shortly after, full on the cookies and treats they had baked.
His phone rang and he answered when he saw John Avers's name.
“Hey.”
“Andre, you slacking again?” John's voice said.
“What do you mean?” Damianos asked, guiltily wiping some cookie crumbs off his sleeve. “Where are you?”
“Just solving this case without you,” John said with a dry chuckle. “I've located most of the victims' families.”
Damianos wasn't surprised. His partner was a determined and hard worker. A bit of an overachiever, really, but in these cases, that wasn't a bad thing.
“And?” Damianos asked, intrigued.
“Well, most men were known in their neighborhoods and all, at one point or another, owned a historic home, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I just found out that one of these men was much more well-known than the others.”
Damianos stopped at his car, again looking over at the large Edward estate. The other side of the phone was silent.
“Well...? Waiting for the punchline here.”
“Just building some suspense,” John said. “Half-expected a drum roll from you.”
It was moments like that that made Damianos happy to have John Avers as his partner. As cool and collected as he was, John knew Damianos's sense of humor all too well and knew that it was a very successful way to communicate with him. So he'd throw in a little bit of his signature dry humor here and there.
“Anyways,” John continued. “Albert Albright. Ever heard of him?”
“Can't say that I have.” Damianos said honestly.
“Well, to bring you up to speed, he was a pretty renowned architect.”
And that's why I don't know him. Who the hell knows any architects? Damianos thought.
“He'd restore old houses throughout the States. It was kind of his thing.”
Old houses.
Damianos looked across the street once again at the Edward home that still exhumed an aura of death. It was definitely an old house, despite the excellent sprucing up that Leon Edward had given it.
In his usual way, John Avers seemed to be able to read his mind.
“All of the victims were found in old restored homes.”
“Yes, but what makes you think this guy...Albright, is important outside of that?”
“Well, Albert Albright wasn't just famous for restoring homes. He was quite the topic of discussion among his neighbors. Many of them had a suspicion that he was some kind of pervert.”
Lovely. Damianos thought.
“From what I heard, there were always rumors circulating that he was an abusive father who molested his son on a regular basis.”
“Any validity to these rumors?”
“Well, he does have a son...so he may be the best one to ask.”
“Alright. Thanks, partner.”
**
It had been five weeks since discovering Leon Edward in his cellar, devoured by rats, and finally there was a break in the morbid case—the architect's son had been located.
Now going by the name James Gibson, he had been apprehended by Damianos and John at the San Diego airport. He had apparently been on his way back from Honolulu, having sp
ent the last week on vacation there.
Chapter Six
From across the table, thirty-eight year old James Gibson definitely didn't look dangerous. He was a rather stocky man but not in an intimidating way; more like was on his way toward being rather obese. His round cheeks only accentuated his pudginess and his new vacation tan almost told the story of a week in luxury, relaxation, and laziness.
Damianos almost immediately felt that James Gibson probably wasn't the culprit.
“My dad was a pest sometimes, sure. And yes, he wasn't exactly father of the year.”
“Did he ever abuse you?”
“Well...I wouldn't say abuse. I got a good smacking around sometimes but I was a pretty annoying kid. Like I said, he wasn't the best dad.”
“We've heard a number of rumors that you're father had a bit of a reputation when it came to kids...”
James leaned forward, clearly a little agitated.
“Is that your way of asking if my dad was a child molester?”
“Yes,” Damianos said bluntly. “Yes it is.”
“Absolutely not! He was a lot of things but never that! Never.”
“He never molested you.”
“Right,” James said sternly. “Those rumors were bullshit. I will swear it in front of a court if you want. Hell, give me a lie-detector test. My father never molested me—never.” He emphasized the last word to make his point.
Damianos was a caught off guard by the display. For such an unassuming man, James Gibson sure gave a passionate defense.
“Fair enough,” Damianos nodded to John's surprise. “Detective, can we step outside for a sec?”
Damianos led John out the door to the viewing area where their captain watched.
“I don't know if I want to waste time with this guy right now. Maybe we could look at other avenues...”
“What other avenues?” John asked. “Albert Albright and those big houses seemed to be the only thing outside of old age to be linking the victims together.”
“He seems pretty sure that his dad wasn't a molester.”
“So?”
Damianos peered through the one-way window at James Gibson who just sat at the table, carelessly twiddling his thumbs.
There was something odd about him, he had to admit.
Why did he change his name?
“Why did he change his name?” Damianos asked the moment he thought of it.
It was strange. Usually someone changing their own name implied a need or want to distance oneself from their surname. According to Mr. Gibson, his father was a bit of a jerk but nothing more. It wasn't condemning whatsoever but it just struck him as strange.
“Maybe the rumors about his dad interfered with him trying to lead a normal life. Hard to find a job or even a girlfriend when everyone nearby thinks your father sexually abused you.” John said, clicking a pen as he spoke.
Damianos rubbed his eyes. The whole case seemed as far out of reach as it had at the start.
Again, he looked hard at James Gibson through the window.
Wait.
“What if we're looking at this all wrong?”
“How do you mean?” John turned with a raised brow.
“Hypothetically...what if James is the one who abused his father?”
“That seems like a bit of a leap, don't you think?” James asked.
Maybe it was.
However, as the detectives looked over James Gibson, the notion seemed to take a firm hold over their thoughts.
“Can't hurt to consider all the possibilities.” Damianos said.
John slowly nodded.
“Agreed.”
That's what made them such a strong team. They were willing to jump off any cliff together, no matter how ludicrous the reason.
**
It took some convincing but, with the captain's approval, he called in a psychologist to be there during the second of James Gibson's interviews.
James seemed surprised to be asked to come back for questioning. He had a few choice words for them when they called but agreed to come in after a lot of persistence.
Again, he sat at the table in the interview room, twiddling his pudgy thumbs.
Damianos marched in with a manila folder in his hand and plopped in as loud as he could on the table—James didn't even flinch.
“Hello again, Mr. Albright.”
“Gibson.”
“Oh, that's right. Sorry about that. My mistake.”
Damianos took a seat, putting the two men at eye level.
“Good to see you again.”
“Honestly, I didn't expect to be back so soon,” James said. “Has there been developments in the case or was there something we missed last time?”
It didn't pass Damianos's notice that James's questions had nothing that even came close to “do you suspect me”?
“We just needed to clear some things up about the investigation.”
“Sure, whatever I can help with.”
“Fantastic.”
Damianos opened the folder in front of him.
“We'd just like for you to take a look at a few things.”
Inside the folder were crime scene photos, all taken from the gruesome murders that had taken place. The first photo was of poor Mr. Edward, lying in his cellar with his body ripped apart by the rodents of his home.
Damianos slid the folder from the folder onto the table in front of James Gibson, watching his reaction closely. James peered down at it, with no shift at all in his expression at first before his mouth opened and he let out a quiet exhale.
“That's horrible.” He said, shaking his head.
“This was Leon Edward. He was seventy-six years old when this happened to him.”
“Awful,” James said. “I'm sorry, I'm a bit squeamish seeing things like this.”
“Sorry, we just really need your opinion on this.”
“What am I supposed to say? World's a terrible place sometimes.”
“We can definitely agree on that,” Damianos said with a small chuckle. “Now how about this one?”
Damianos slid another picture across the table, right next to Leon Edward's—another of the rat victims.
“Vernon Murray. Eighty-one years old. Same thing happened to him.”
It took James a moment longer this time to bring his attention to the picture.
“Horrible,” He said again. “How did this happen to them?”
“Rats, if you'd believe it.”
James shook his head. He wasn't acting out of the ordinary...but for someone who supposedly got queasy over seeing things like that, he didn't seem overly disturbed.
So Damianos decided to mix it up a little—maybe try and get James off-balance.
The next picture he pulled from the folder was of the mesh of body parts that had been found in the hole on the Edward property.
“This is one of the worst of the bunch.”
He planted the photo next to the others.
“Some of the bodies were found like this,” Damianos made sure to emphasize each part slowly. “...disposed of in septic holes...compost bins...mutilated and ripped apart by vermin...pretty nasty stuff”
James Gibson just looked over the set of photos with a chilling silence. His eyes didn't seem to look over each one, but were rather still, taking them in as one complete picture. To Damianos, James seemed to be admiring the set of photos as someone would a painting.
“Why are you showing me these?” James finally asked. “This has nothing to do with my father and obviously nothing to do with me.”
Damianos flashed a thin smile.
“Obviously.”
The two of them sat across from each other without saying another word for a moment. James continued to look over the photos. Watching him closely, Damianos took a sip of his coffee.
James's head was tilted downward as he examined the pictures so much of his face was hidden under his somewhat sweaty brow. For over a minute he did nothing but look at the pictures
, leaving Damianos to sit and watch.
Then—for the briefest part of a second—James Gibson's lips seemed to twist into a smile.
At first, Damianos couldn't even be sure what he had seen was real. It was gone just as quickly as it had appeared...but it had been there, he knew it had.
“Would you like some coffee? I'm gonna get myself another cup. This investigation has been killing my sleep. Feeling pretty old and sluggish.”
James looked up at him, the smile nowhere to be found but his hands on the table seemed to twitch but he quickly covered them up by interlocking them with his fingers.
“No thank you. I don't think I'll have to be here much longer, right? I've got some errands I need to run today.”
Damianos rose from his chair with an intentional slowness, as if he was suddenly eighty-five years old and almost incapable of getting up. James seemed to be watching his movements very intently, like a predator waiting out his prey.
Damianos left and once again found John Avers watching from the other side of the one-way window with the psychologist they called in, standing beside him.
“He smiled.” Damianos said when he entered.
“What?” John did his usual brow raise.
“I saw Mr. Gibson smile when he was looking at the pictures.”
“I didn't see a smile.”
“It was quick but it was there. This is our guy.”
“You're going to base all of that off of a smile? Maybe he just smiles when he's nervous. I had a friend back in the academy who had that problem. Anytime he even heard about a murder, the guy seemed like he wanted to laugh.”
“No,” Damianos said, looking through the window at James. “It's not that.”
In truth, Damianos wasn't absolutely sure that James Gibson was the murderer but his gut was being very vocal in its own theories.
“John, you mind giving Alan a call? I'm hoping he can bring me something.”
Damianos may have gotten his name from being “the tamer”, but truth was his only experience with animals was the savage criminals of his city's underbelly. Maybe it was time he finally learned how to handle some animals.
**
Nearly an hour later, Damianos, with a sealed bag in his hands, re-entered the interview room.